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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512779">Stars May Collide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Moulin Rouge!, M/M, Supernatural Elements, as in the fears are still there, yeah it's a moulin rouge au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 04:20:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Martin knows that if there’s a place to be as an aspiring writer, then it’s Paris. Here, he can write poetry without feeling stifled by the dreariness of the densely-packed London buildings and equally as dreary people. Here, he can meet others like him, other poets and artists and people so in love with the idea of truth, beauty, and freedom they might die.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Here, he can finally write about love.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Even though he’s never been in love. But that had always seemed like a bridge he could cross when he came to it.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. fools and kings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi all! So this is a 100% self-indulgent Moulin Rouge AU, because it's one of my favorite movies and the idea of the TMA characters within that universe would not leave my mind until I wrote it down, so. </p>
<p>If you're familiar with the movie, it is a tragedy, and so as Jon is filling the role of Satine in this, he is going to die at the end. I've tagged for that, and it's certainly not going to be anything graphic or overdone, but it will be there, so just be aware of that.</p>
<p>Additionally, if you're familiar with the movie, you know that the dancers at the Moulin Rouge are involved in prostitution and that Satine is a courtesan. Things are going to run a bit differently in this fic, as Jon is still going to be asexual (and likely sex neutral, but I'm still ironing that out), and additionally, the fears are still going to be present. I won't go into too much detail here, as you'll find out more in the actual fic, but just know that the sexual aspect of this is going to be fairly minimal, which is why it's rated Teen. </p>
<p>That's it! I'll update character and general tags as we go along, and content warnings will be in the end notes of each chapter. I know this is a relatively niche AU, so if you're reading this, I appreciate it 💛</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>There was a boy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A very strange enchanted boy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They say he wandered very far, very far</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Over land and sea</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A little shy and sad of eye</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But very wise was he</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And then one day</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A magic day he passed my way</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And while we spoke of many things</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fools and kings</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>This he said to me</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The greatest thing you’ll ever learn</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Is just to love and be loved in return</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>- Nature Boy, eden ahbez</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Martin’s sitting at his typewriter, but the words won’t come. He’s never been want for them in the past; his prose has always flowed like mountain springs, like warm honey, like the sweetest champagne from bottle to glass to throat. But now, every time he tries to type, his fingers stick to the keys and refuse to move.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A tear hits the back of his hand, hot against the chill that the Parisian winter has brought to his flat. It had always been a threadbare thing, the wind sneaking in through the crevices and the flimsy fabric covering the glassless windows doing naught against the rain. But before, it hadn’t mattered. Before, there had been light, and joy, and music, and Jon, and—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin’s next breath comes out hitched, a sob desperately wanting to rip itself free from within him and display his grief so starkly against the candlelight that paints shadows against the walls. God, he can’t do this. It’s been months, nearly a year, and he still <em>can’t do this.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s so… quiet in Paris now. All of the bright lights and flashing colors and loud, raucous shrieks of laughter have subsided, consumed by that terrible, freezing cold that had stolen away everything Martin had ever cared about. Had ever <em>loved.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bright colors of the poisonous snake had drawn him in, and he had ended up bitten and broken and alone. But hadn’t it been lovely, that time in between? Still, even now, he can’t bring himself to regret the choices he made that led him here.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He hadn’t come to Paris with the intent to get involved with the Moulin Rouge. But life has a funny way of taking you where you least expect it, doesn’t it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, perhaps, just taking you to what hurts most.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin rubs the tear on his hand away with a thumb and takes a deep breath in through his nose. <em>Okay. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>He loved Jon. And now Jon’s dead. And he’s going to make damn sure that his story isn’t lost to the fog that has consumed the rest of this godforsaken place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He <em>won’t</em> let him be forgotten.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, Martin takes another deep breath, tasting the damp winter air and the faint scent of melted wax on the back of his tongue, slides a new sheet of paper into the typewriter, and begins to write.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>One and a Half Years Prior</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin’s just about got his suitcases unpacked when a man falls through his ceiling.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims; he narrowly avoids dropping his typewriter through expert use of his knee and a rather impressive balancing act. Carefully, he slides the typewriter onto the rickety desk that serves as exactly one of the two pieces of furniture in the flat that is proving to be <em>exactly</em> what he paid for, his eyes still fixed on the man who’s now hanging suspended by his ankles in the middle of his bedroom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A small snore escapes the man’s mouth, and Martin realizes with a start that he’s asleep. There’s an unconscious man hanging from the ceiling in his flat, and now there’s a rather large hole in his ceiling, and god, could this day get any worse?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, hello!” a voice says, and suddenly, there are <em>two</em> people in Martin’s flat as a short women dressed as what is probably supposed to be a nun (if you’d only ever heard one described to you and decided to make your costume from there) slips nimbly through the hole in his ceiling and lands on light feet next to him. Her head comes just up to his shoulder, but her firm handshake leaves his fingers red and aching.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m Sasha. Sasha James. So sorry about your ceiling—we’re rehearsing a play, you see, and Tim—oh, that’s Tim, by the way, I’m sure he’ll be very excited to meet you when he wakes up—well, he’s our protagonist, and he has this song where he has to stand on a ladder, and well, he’s got narcolepsy, so he can be perfectly fine one moment and unconscious the next, and well, we couldn’t quite catch him this time when he fell, so.” She gestures to his ceiling. “But, oh, how rude of me—I haven’t gotten your name yet!” She looks at him expectantly, like she hasn’t just given him the biggest whiplash of his entire life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I- I’m Martin,” he manages around the knot of shock in his throat. “Martin, um. Blackwood. Nice to… meet you? I suppose.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sasha’s enthusiasm seems to die down just a bit at the hesitance in his voice—and probably in no small part due to his distinctly British accent. “Ah, sorry. This must be quite a lot. And I’m guessing you just moved here? From England, yes?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin manages a nod. His mother’s voice echoes in the back of his mind, calling the village of Montmartre where Martin’s effectively fled to a <em>village of sin</em> in that voice she uses when she’s deeply disappointed in something, and is making no effort to hide it, but is nevertheless indifferent enough about it to not make much of a fuss. Thus, Martin’s departure from London had come with little fanfare, even as he’d promised to write and send any money he could spare and make the trip back every couple of months. He knew that his promises had fallen on deaf ears, but it still didn’t feel right to just up and leave.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But <em>Montmartre.</em> If Paris is the city of love, then Montmartre is where love had been born. It's the center of the Bohemian world, where music and dance and art exist in raw color and beauty and the nights are never-ending splashes of color and life. Musicians, painters, writers—the Children of the Revolution. Martin knows, he <em>knows,</em> that if there’s a place to be as an aspiring writer, then it’s here. Here, he can write poetry without feeling stifled by the dreariness of the densely-packed London buildings and equally as dreary people. Here, he can meet others like him, other poets and artists and people so in love with the idea of truth, beauty, and freedom they might die.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here, he can finally write about <em>love.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even though he’s never been in love. But that had always seemed like a bridge he could cross when he came to it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, welcome to Paris!” Sasha says with a wide smile, bringing Martin forcefully back to the present and the fact that there are two strangers in his flat. “A bit of a rough introduction to Bohemian life, I suppose, but when is anything underdone in Montmartre? God forbid anybody ever call us <em>dreary.</em> I might just keel over on the spot.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin’s about to say that it’s fine, really, he’s just shocked and a bit travel-weary and honestly a touch on edge being off on his own for the first time in his life, when another head pokes down from the hole in the ceiling.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sasha! <em>Please</em> tell me that Tim did not fall asleep again. If we have to rehearse this scene one more time, I’m going to go insane.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sasha looks a bit guilty, as if it’s her fault that Tim’s currently drooling onto Martin’s floor. “Ah. No, he’s fully out of it, Basira. Sorry about that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s a drawn-out groan, and when Martin takes a step closer, he can see a stern-faced Arabic woman peering down, her hijab a brilliant mix of greens and yellows and quite a bit of glitter. Some of it falls down on Martin as she runs a tired hand down her face, and he barely suppresses a sneeze. “Fantastic. You <em>do</em> realize that we have to have this play done by tomorrow, right? Otherwise we won’t get funded. And if we’re not funded…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah. No play. I know how <em>money</em> works, Basira, bereft of it as I am. But… but you know how he gets! When he’s asleep, he’s <em>asleep.</em> It’s gonna be an hour, at least.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Fuck.</em>” Basira slams a fist on the floor (ceiling?); it sends a cloud of sawdust down on top of Martin. This time, he does sneeze, which seems to alert Basira to his presence; she looks down on him with a deep crease of confusion on her forehead. “Who’s this?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin’s eyes are a bit watery, but he’s still put-together enough to take a step closer and extend a hand. The angle is a bit weird, but after a pause, Basira takes it. “I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood. I- well, I suppose I’m your downstairs neighbor. Though the… distinction might not matter so much anymore, considering.” He gestures vaguely to the hole.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira squints at him, like she’s found a rat in her boot and she’s trying very hard to decide whether to just kill the rat or to throw the entire boot into the bin. But, in the end, she just says, “How’s your acting?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Um, what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then, somehow, Martin’s tottering on a ladder, a frilly hat perched precariously atop his head—“Good lord, you have a big head,” Basira had muttered as she’d matted down his curls and stuck the hat on—and trying desperately to both not fall and read the script he’s been given. It’s…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Well, it’s bad. There, he said it. The words don’t flow at <em>all,</em> and the prose is cliched and stuttering, tripping forward on itself in a rhythm that more closely resembles an armful of glass jars dropped down a flight of stairs, bringing with them that same gut-wrenching anxiety that something will shatter. Basira’s playing something properly <em>horrendous</em> on the thing she calls a keyboard, and Sasha’s grin is wide and slightly manic as she hits an assortment of bells at what seems like arbitrary intervals. And the <em>colors,</em> and the <em>costumes,</em> and the <em>singing…</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, no, no!” Basira says, the words biting. “This isn’t <em>right.</em> Your words don’t match my music!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A tall, stern-faced woman who Martin was informed, in no uncertain terms, he should <em>never</em> disagree with fixes Basira with a firm glare. “Well, your <em>insufferable droning</em> is drowning out my words! Just- just stick to some decorative piano or something.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll show <em>you</em> decorative piano—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, guys,” Sasha says quickly, stepping between the two with an easy smile. “It- it’s a bit too late to change things, don’t you think?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The woman—Jude, Martin thinks she said her name was—looks absolutely murderous. “Not when it keeps interfering with my <em>artistic vision.</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, <em>your</em> artistic vision?” Basira crosses her arms and matches Jude’s glare in intensity. “You mean things like, ‘The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of descant’? That’s <em>shit</em> and you know it! It’s too many words! What about, ‘The hills are vital intoning the descant’? Short, sweet, simple.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jude looks three seconds away from punching her. “Are you suggesting we <em>change my words? </em>Oh, you <em>must</em> be joking.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What about, ‘The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies’?” Sasha says, in a way that’s clearly meant to be helpful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two pairs of furious eyes turn to her, and the room dissolves into shouts and furious accusations.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Is… is this what it’s like? Martin’s head is spinning; he leans against the top of the ladder for support, and it nearly sends him tumbling to the ground. One of the props that’s hung precariously near him isn’t quite as lucky; it hits the ground with a dull <em>thunk,</em> and Martin winces. But it’s like he’s not even there. Sasha’s shouting something about, “The hills quake and shake!” and Basira is using a myriad of words that Martin’s never even <em>heard</em> before but that make his face flush a hot crimson all the same.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin’s a shit actor. He’s never been one for the theatre, and he’s certainly too clumsy to be much of a dancer. He can <em>sort of</em> sing, but he… he doesn’t really like to. He’d stopped humming as he washed the dishes when his mother had walked into the kitchen, given him a disdainful look, and said, “I see you’ve gotten your singing voice from your father,” and, well. That had put an end to it. But, if there’s one thing he’s good at—like really, <em>properly </em>good at—it’s writing. Poetry, prose, plays, anything—the words are within him constantly, begging to be let free, chasing him all the way here to this dusty attic with bright colors and discordant piano and the <em>worst</em> lyrics—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which he can fix, he realizes with a start. It only takes him a breath to find the words. It takes him many, many more to be heard over the din of increasingly vitriolic insults. And maybe it’s this place, or maybe it’s desperation, or maybe it’s the tense excitement that’s been building within him since he boarded the train from London, but when he finally manages to get out, “The hills are alive with the sound of music!” it’s sung, in a way he hasn’t in so, so long.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Oh, god, that was ridiculous</em> is all he has time to think before there are four pairs of eyes on him. In the moment it takes him to register that that’s one pair too many, Tim has crossed the room to where Martin’s stood, his hair matted on the side of his head and a clear bruise forming on the side of his face from where it had hit the floor but a shine in his eyes that Martin doesn’t quite know what to do with. “Oh, I like you,” he says with a wink that makes Martin flush all the way down his neck. “Sasha, why didn’t you wake me earlier? There’s a literary <em>genius</em> in our presence! I can’t believe you let me sleep through meeting him!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Technically, <em>you</em> met him first,” Sasha says. “You did fall through his ceiling.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ugh, is <em>that</em> what happened?” Tim turns to Martin and places a hand on his shoulder; it’s firm and warm and squeezing just a bit too tightly to be comfortable, but damned if Martin’s going to say anything about it. “Terribly sorry, er…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Martin,” Sasha supplies.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Martin!” Tim gives Martin another bright, sparkling grin. “Well, Martin, hit me! What comes after, ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uh…” Jude’s eyes are boring into the side of his face with an intensity that could melt steel. Still, Martin can’t help but say, with no small amount of trepidation, “With- with songs they have sung, for a thousand years…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh. My god?” Sasha takes quick steps toward him and pushes past Tim to grip Martin tightly by the shoulders. Her eyes are wide and excited, and Martin can feel that same excitement tickling deep within him, because <em>is this it?</em> Could… could this be his chance? “Martin, you’re amazing! That’s beautiful, and it- it just captures the Bohemian spirit <em>perfectly!</em> God, I’m so glad Tim broke through your ceiling!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Um, I- I don’t—” Martin says, at the same time that Tim says, “Glad my pain causes you amusement, Sasha.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sasha looks a little sheepish. “Oh, you know what I mean.” She turns to Jude, whose simmering fury could probably boil water in a matter of seconds. “You two should write the show together! It’ll be perfect!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Judging by the series of expletives Jude unleashes as she slams the rickety wooden door behind her on her way out, <em>perfect</em> is not the word that came to her mind. And then Sasha and Tim are rambling on about <em>jobs</em> and <em>plays</em> and <em>revolutionary shows</em> and Martin’s head is spinning and Tim’s hand is somehow on Martin’s shoulder and then his face and then his—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey!” Martin exclaims, stumbling back a few steps. “Look, this- this is all <em>great,</em> and I- I <em>really</em> want to work with you, I really, <em>really</em> do, but I- can we just slow down for a second? This is- it’s a, a <em>lot.</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s Basira who says, with a flat voice that’s not unkind but also not coddling, “Here’s what we’re asking of you, Martin. Can you or can you not write for us? The rest, it- it’s all important, sure, but it’s not <em>important,</em> not right now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin wants to. <em>God,</em> he wants to, more than he wants to eat and sleep and breathe. So, he puts it all out of mind—the colors and the lights and the songs—and says, barely more than a whisper but with more conviction than he’s ever felt before, “<em>Yes.</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim claps a hand on his shoulder, nearly startling the confidence right out of him. “Fantastic! This is going to be <em>it,</em> guys, I can feel it! We just have to—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He cuts off with a groan, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Martin thinks that they’ve changed their minds, that they’re going to send him on his way with his suitcases and laughter at his expense and that same tightness in his heart that he’d worked so hard to leave behind. Then, Tim says, “<em>Bouchard,</em>” and Martin’s left with only confusion.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, damn,” Basira says, but the look on her face is more contemplative than distressed. “You’re right; he’ll be expecting Jude, not—” She gestures vaguely in Martin’s direction, and he thinks that perhaps he should be offended, but he’s still stuck on what a <em>Bouchard</em> is.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, Sasha says, “There’s more than one way into the Moulin Rouge, guys,” and it <em>clicks.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” Martin says in a small voice, because <em>Bouchard</em> is <em>Elias Bouchard</em>, proprietor of the Moulin Rouge, a nightclub barely visible beyond his window in splashes of cherry red, sending a coil of nerves through his stomach every time he couldn’t keep himself from looking at it. “Oh, I… I don’t know—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, <em>relax,</em> Martin,” Tim says, slinging his arm over Martin’s shoulder and squeezing him tightly to his side. “I know it <em>looks</em> like a ‘den of sin’ and whatnot, but—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He pauses, forehead creased as he searches for the right words. “Well, no, okay, it- it <em>kind of</em> is,” he concedes, “but not in the way you think! Bouchard’s a piece of work, and honestly, if he finds out that you’re not already <em>ridiculously</em> famous or wealthy, he’s likely to can the entire project. But, luckily for us all, there’s a solution.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh?” Martin’s not even a little less nervous. His mother’s face flashes briefly before him; he represses it with a bit more force than necessary. “What- what would that be, then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sasha flashes him a smile undercut with a sly deviousness. “We won’t be able to convince Bouchard, not directly. But we don’t have to. We just have to get someone <em>else</em> to, someone who he’ll listen to.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right, because this went <em>so</em> well the last time,” Basira says dryly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, no, I think he’ll really like Martin!” Tim says, giving Martin another squeeze for emphasis. “Yeah, he <em>says</em> he doesn’t like poetry, but he’s never heard poetry like <em>this.</em> It’s perfect!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Guys,” Martin says nervously, “<em>what</em> are you talking about?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sasha’s smile only gets wider. “Put on your best suit, Martin Blackwood. We’re going to the Moulin Rouge tonight. There’s someone you need to meet.”</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“And you’re sure I have to?’</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Elias’s smile is inverted by the mirror it’s reflected by. “This is a <em>very</em> important client—one of our benefactors, in fact. Keeping him happy isn’t something I would entrust to just <em>anyone,</em> you understand.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hmm. How odd. I’ve been distinctly under the impression that my job is quite the <em>opposite</em> of ‘keeping people happy.’”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Elias sighs, but it’s not in earnest. “Like I said, he’s one of our benefactors. I need to ensure he feels that we’re still… doing our job, as it were. I just need you to <em>convince</em> him of that. Of course, I leave it up to your discretion how you go about doing that. You <em>have</em> done so very well in the past.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself. I’m not doing this for you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Elias smiles thinly. “If you say so. Now, I do believe we have a show to put on?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jon stares at his face in the mirror for a moment more; it stares back with tired eyes, the bags prominent enough that he’ll have to break out his concealer. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet with him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not that he really has much of a choice. But choice doesn’t matter much in this place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Excellent,” Elias says, in that tone of voice that confirms that his asking had just been a courtesy. “This is a <em>very</em> important night, Jon. Do try to enjoy yourself.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I always do,” Jon says, a bit sarcastically, because he knows Elias likes it when he gets snarky, and tonight seems like a very, very good time to stay on Elias’s good side. “Don’t <em>you</em> have investors to meet?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hmm, quite.” Elias takes a step away, then pauses. “And Jon?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jon sighs. “Yes?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“While I appreciate your… sharp tongue, as it were, I’m afraid I can’t say the same for our benefactor. Might I suggest something a bit… softer around the edges?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a learned weariness, Jon says, “<em>Fine.</em> But, like I’ve <em>always</em> told you, I’m not going to—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, yes. I remember.” Elias gives Jon a smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring—but, as it’s Elias, perhaps not. “But you have done a <em>lovely</em> job convincing our clientele, haven’t you? Certainly, we’ve had to… <em>eliminate</em> far less people since you came to us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dryly, Jon says, “So because I tell people that I’m going to have sex with them and then feed all of their secrets to the Eye instead, you <em>don’t</em> have Daisy hunt them down?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You say that as if that’s not something to be <em>proud</em> of. We do have a reputation to maintain, after all, and the fact that you have the <em>unusual</em> ability of overwriting one memory with another… well, it’s much easier to deal in knowledge when it feeds itself willingly to us, and we used to get the <em>worst</em> rumors spread about us. But, of course, you already know about those.” Elias turns and makes to leave again. He casts one last, “Remember, Jon: <em>softer,</em>” over his shoulder before he’s gone, and Jon’s left in the dark, musty basement that serves as the Moulin Rouge’s dressing rooms with a familiar bad taste in the back of his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right. Because it’s a <em>good</em> thing that gods are real, but only for fear, and that Jon serves the one in charge of knowledge and revealed secrets and watching.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes him far longer to get ready than it probably should, because he’s thinking about what Elias’s mystery benefactor might look like. He outlines his eyes in dark kohl and wonders if he’s going to be pushy, like some have been, all hands and hungry eyes and making Jon uncomfortably comfortable with being touched. He hesitates in front of his chest of drawers before pulling out a silver dress that glimmers, even in the low light of the single bare bulb above, and wonders if he’s going to be tall, towering over Jon as he puts his hand on the wall above Jon’s head and leans in close, or short, gripping the front of Jon’s tie and pulling him down. He drags an ivory comb through his hair, tugging the gentle waves into shape with product and scrunching them until they fall over his shoulders in loose coils, and wonders how deep his secrets will go.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s struggling to pull his hair into a topknot when a pair of thin-fingered hands meet his own, pushing them gently aside as they begin to manipulate his hair into place. “Bobby pins,” they instruct, holding out the hand that’s not currently holding Jon’s hair in place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jon presses a few pins into the waiting hand with a small smile. “Thanks, Gerry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gerry just hums in response; Jon doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s frowning, ever so slightly. “So. What did Bouchard want, then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, the usual,” Jon says with a barely suppressed groan. “This time it’s an <em>investor,</em> though.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh?” Gerry says around the bobby pin he’s got gripped in between his teeth. “Elias <em>does</em> realize you have the charisma of a brick, right? If he’s trying to charm money from this guy, he’s definitely going about it the wrong way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks,” Jon says dryly. “But it sounds like that won’t be an issue. He wants me to… to, erm. <em>Convince</em> him that we’re still doing our jobs.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Convince him, or <em>convince </em>him?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“If you’re asking if I’m going to have sex with him,” Jon says flatly, “the answer is no.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But you’re still meant to put on the act?” Gerry says, pushing the last of the bobby pins into Jon’s hair. “If he’s funding the Moulin Rouge, he probably knows about the fears, right?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jon lets out a long breath. “Maybe? Probably best to just… do what I’m used to.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gerry gives Jon’s shoulder a gentle squeeze; Jon leans slightly into the touch. “You know you don’t have to, right?” he says softly; the words are just as familiar as they are so achingly wrong. “There are worse things in this world than disappointing Elias Bouchard.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You know it’s not about that,” Jon says quietly. “You’re just as trapped here as I am, Gerry. If this is what I have to do to leave, then I’ll do it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He doesn’t say that he enjoys it, more than just a bit. The complete knowledge that comes from a person laid bare in front of him, their secrets that can burn and cut extracted with careful words and false reassurances. But he knows he doesn’t have to; Gerry knows him well enough to read it on his face. He just wishes he were able to feel badly about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“All done,” is all Gerry says in the end, giving Jon’s shoulder one last squeeze before releasing him. Then, after a brief pause, he says, “Just… just be careful, okay? I <em>know</em> you’re shit at taking care of yourself, so just—don’t do anything you don’t want to do, okay?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jon wants to say that that’s not how it works here. That he hasn’t had the luxury of <em>want</em> and <em>don’t</em> <em>want</em> for a long time. Instead, he offers a weary smile to Gerry’s reflection in the mirror and says, “I’ll try.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aw, starting without us?” a voice says lightly from behind him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jon turns away from the mirror and says, “You’re chronically late, Georgie. If I waited for you to arrive before starting, I would never get anything done on time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, that’s hardly fair. I’m only late <em>most</em> of the time.” Georgie drops her bags on the chair next to her mirror, nearly knocking the yellowing photograph of the Admiral from its precarious perch on the cluttered table. “You look nicer than usual. Big night?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Nicer than usual?</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s meeting with one of our esteemed benefactors,” Gerry says rather unhelpfully, as Jon was quite keen to keep <em>that</em> particular fact hidden from—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Finally working your way up the ladder, then?” Melanie says, leaning against the wall next to him with a raised eyebrow. “Got tired of sucking Bouchard’s dick?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Great. This is exactly what Jon was trying to <em>avoid.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Melanie, don’t be unkind,” Georgie chides, halfway through working her hair into a tight French braid. “Jon’s stuck here, same as us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah. I know. Doesn’t make me any happier about the fact that he gets special treatment just because the Eye likes him better than us or whatever.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ll have you know,” Jon says tersely, “that I’m not any happier about that fact than you are.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, boo hoo,” Melanie says sullenly. But they’ve had this argument so many times that it’s long since lost its fire. Jon knows that Melanie hates being caged and that lashing out is the only thing she can do to avoid breaking down completely. Melanie knows that Jon hates being used but that there’s not much he can do besides comply, lest he somehow damage the fragile equilibrium he’s reached, where he does what Elias asks and Elias leaves them alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, when Melanie sighs and says, “Well, at least we’ll finally know what kind of people thought <em>this</em> place was a good idea,” it’s with resignation rather than anger. “Lovely hair, by the way. Gerry, think you could do mine? I can never get the bobby pins to stay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The room falls into a comfortable silence, broken by brief murmured questions and occasional soft laughter as they each run through the steps that have become far more than second nature by now. Jon stares at himself in the mirror and runs a gentle thumb over the dark circles under his eyes and wonders if the man he’s to seduce tonight will be kind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Probably not. But that’s okay. Jon’s used to that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Montmartre is a place of freedom and truth and beauty and love. But not for him. He’d made his peace with that long, long ago.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>cw: mentioned character death, implied sexual harassment, arguing</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. a kiss on the hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw in end notes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Martin finally finds his way to a relatively sheltered table on the edge of the dancefloor, Tim’s hand firmly gripping his arm so he doesn’t get consumed by the crowd of identical black-and-white suits, he can feel a throbbing headache forming just behind his eyes. Where London was all drab greys and sorrowful blues and muddy browns, the Moulin Rouge is a garish combination of every color that’s ever existed—and possibly a few more thrown in just for good measure. As soon as they’d stepped into the building, with its ceilings that seemed to touch the sky and a floor that pulsed under the swaying bodies that occupied it, the heat had hit Martin like an open flame, and he’d almost turned right back around and walked out.</p><p> </p><p>“Look,” Sasha had said, resting a hand on his arm and tugging gently until he looked at her. God, the raw terror she must have seen in his eyes; her mouth softened into a reassuring smile as she said, “I know it’s a lot, but all of this—” She gestures at the crowds, nearly knocking her elbow into a portly gentleman as she does so. “—it’s not something you have to worry about, okay? Just try to enjoy the show; the meeting’s after, and it’s going to go well, I <em>promise.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Martin squeaked as he let himself get pulled through the crowd, trying to duck the various flailing elbows and only occasionally succeeding.</p><p> </p><p>Because apparently, the <em>someone</em> he’s meant to meet is Jon Sims, Bouchard’s top performer, and he’s going to be meeting him <em>alone.</em> Alone, with a Moulin Rouge performer, reading him poetry and trying desperately to not blow the <em>one</em> chance he has at really becoming a writer.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, he knows what this place is. And a <em>private meeting</em> is <em>not</em> something he’s interested in, not even a little. But Sasha had sworn up and down that it wasn’t <em>like that,</em> and Jon was <em>different,</em> but then Tim had given him a knowing smirk and said that he better use his best <em>poetry,</em> and—</p><p> </p><p>Well, Martin’s hands are shaking quite badly by the time he finally slumps into his chair, somehow out of breath despite having done not much of anything yet. Tim’s hand leaves his arm as he settles down next to him, one arm going around the back of Martin’s chair and the other reaching absently for the decanter of bourbon sitting on the table.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha swats at Tim’s hand. “Stop that.” At Tim’s pout, she says, more sternly, “When you’re drunk, you get <em>loud,</em> and we <em>cannot</em> let Bouchard know that we’re here. If we’re lucky, he’s not looking at us yet, and I <em>don’t</em> want to give him a reason to divert his attention from his show.”</p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly, Tim withdraws his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But not even a little? Just a drop?”</p><p> </p><p>“If <em>I</em> can’t drink,” Basira says as she settles down next to them, emerald green suit flashing in the light, “then <em>you</em> can’t drink.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you never drink,” Tim points out.</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p> </p><p>They probably continue bickering—from what Martin’s seen in the few hours that he’s known them, that seems to be their default state—but it fades into the loud chatter of the crowd and the crescendo of the music as it swells in time with the dancers’ steps. It’s… not quite what he expected when he’d heard it talked about in hushed tones in London or on the train as he’d pulled into the station in Paris. There are the colors, sure, and the costumes and the dancing and the laughing, but it all seems so… false, in a way. Like it’s all a diversion and the real show is tucked away in the shadows, performed for no one but the unlucky individuals who have been pulled in with a beckoning hand and a smile and a promise of joy beyond compare.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe Martin’s just nervous. He wipes his sweaty hands on the navy suit he’d borrowed from Tim—because Tim had taken one look at the ratty thing he’d pulled from his suitcase and said, “Oh, absolutely not”—and looks upon the shifting colors and tries not to attract any attention. He’s remarkably good at that. At least, his mother had always said so.</p><p> </p><p>“A rather nice night, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Martin startles slightly, nearly knocking his hat from the table. The man standing just to his left, who’s now looking at him with a small, benign smile on his face, is tall and broad, impeccably dressed in a deep blue suit that mirrors Martin’s own in color. His beard is long and streaked through with grey. Though he’s smiling at Martin, Martin still feels a shiver go up his spine as he meets the other man’s eyes; he tries to offer a smile in return anyway. “Er, yes? It’s, um. Unseasonably cold, I suppose, but nice all the same.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm. I rather like the cold,” the man muses, and Martin feels <em>quite</em> out of his element. He suddenly feels childish in his suit, and he picks absently at the sleeves. “Though in here… you don’t feel it as much, do you? There are so many people, after all.”</p><p> </p><p>He says <em>people</em> the same way you would say <em>cockroaches, </em>with a wrinkle of distaste on his forehead. Martin finds it best to just agree with him, so he says, a bit hesitantly, “…Yes, it is rather warm in here. And, er. Crowded.” Then, because surely they’ve skipped the necessary pleasantries: “I’m sorry, I- I didn’t catch your name. I’m Martin Blackwood.”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s mouth quirks up again, ever so slightly. “Peter Lukas. Pleasure.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s still struggling to come up with a way to continue the conversation—though by the way that Peter has let his gaze drift over the crowd again, he’s not sure he’s even expected to at all—when a hush falls over the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, here we go,” Tim says, appearing suddenly by Martin’s side. His grin is wide and unabashed, but also genuinely excited. “Martin, you are going to <em>love </em>this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim’s just saying that because he thinks that Jon is hot when he sings,” Basira says flatly.</p><p> </p><p>Tim shrugs. “Can’t argue with that. Seriously, though. Just <em>watch.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Martin watches. And when he finally sees him—stood upon a balcony overlooking the dancefloor, silver dress glittering in the spotlight that’s trained upon him, he feels his heart trip over itself and restart at a rapid, thrumming pace.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” he says, his voice small.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Tim echoes, assenting.</p><p> </p><p>And then Jon starts to sing. And Martin <em>melts.</em></p><p> </p><p>Because the words are <em>lovely,</em> and they’re nothing he’s ever heard before. Because Jon’s voice is low and soft and does something to Martin’s stomach that leaves him breathless. Because when Jon starts to descend the spiraling stairs that lead to the dancefloor, his hair catches in the light and Martin can just barely see streaks of grey in the ringlets that frame his face, the ones that aren’t pulled severely back into a tight topknot.</p><p> </p><p>Because it’s <em>beautiful</em>, and <em>Jon</em> is beautiful, and it’s so easy to forget where he is and what he needs to do and who Jon is.</p><p> </p><p>There’s some sort of commotion next to him, he thinks. Sasha’s rustling with something, muttering some sort of apology, and the looming man beside him is gone, leaving behind only a chill. But he watches still as Jon reaches the end of the stairs, his hand ghosting against the railing in that delicate yet deliberate way of someone who knows that they’re on display for the world to see.</p><p> </p><p>And then Jon’s on the dancefloor and the crowd is parting around him in some sort of unspoken agreement. Martin thinks he understands, just a little; as Jon continues to sing, lyrics about <em>secrets</em> and <em>truth</em> and <em>desire</em> spilling out like lovely rivers of silver-tongued poetry, he seems almost ethereal, like if you reached out and tried to brush against his skin, your hand would pass right through.</p><p> </p><p>And then Jon sings, with such lovely timbre, “When I saw you—well, I knew we’d tell it well,” and his eyes fall on Martin, and <em>oh.</em> And then Jon’s walking this way, <em>oh, god, he’s walking this way, what do I—</em></p><p> </p><p>“Like a feather,” Jon sings, just a few feet from Martin, “bringing kingdoms to their knees.”</p><p> </p><p>His hand brushes against Martin’s, and Martin can do nothing but stare, wide-eyed and limp, as Jon brings Martin’s hand to his mouth and lays a soft kiss across the knuckles. “I look forward to our meeting later,” he says softly, and Martin knows that that’s for <em>him</em>, and only him.</p><p> </p><p>By the time he finds the words within him to respond, Jon is already gone, swallowed up by a swirling mass of colorful dancers and flashing skirts that make Martin’s already overwhelmed senses thoroughly collapse. He takes a staggering step backward, about to collapse into his chair, when Tim grips his arm and pulls him forward a bit.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, <em>that</em> went well!” he says, his eyes bright and sparkling. “What on earth did you <em>do,</em> Martin? Christ, it took me <em>ages</em> to get him to <em>smile</em> at me, and you’ve got him kissing the back of your hand like a goddamned Pride and Prejudice scene in less than a minute!”</p><p> </p><p>“I- I just- I just <em>stood</em> there,” Martin stammers, his heart still racing in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Damn,” Basira says, sounding distinctly impressed. “Maybe this <em>will</em> work after all.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, sorry!” Sasha pushes through the crowd and practically collapses back at their table. Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a distinct outline of a pair of cherry red lips on her temple. “Had to usher that poor chap to the lavatory—felt <em>awful</em> that I spilled his drink on him, you know, what with that <em>very</em> nice looking suit—and then I got, er. Distracted on the way back.”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to staying <em>under the radar</em>?” Basira asks with a small groan. “Could we be a <em>little</em> more subtle in here? You know, what with the <em>we’re always being watched</em> thing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Relax,” Sasha says with a small smile. “I’ve taken care of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh,” Tim says. “Taken care of it <em>how?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“The <em>how</em> isn’t important,” Sasha says with a wave of her hand. “Just know that Bouchard’s found himself a bit too… <em>busy</em> at the moment to keep an eye on us.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin thinks he should probably ask <em>why,</em> exactly, they have to worry about being seen tucked away as they are in the corner, when he sees a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and his mind returns to <em>Jon</em> so quickly it almost gives him whiplash.</p><p> </p><p>At some point, Jon had pulled out his bobby pins, and his hair falls against the nape of his neck in heavy curls as he sits atop a platform erected in the center of the dancefloor, surveying the crowd of black-and-white suits clustered around him with a small, thin smile. As Martin watches, he apparently finds his attention drawn by one of them, as he leans forward and says something that Martin can’t hear, his lips moving soundlessly.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t see their face—the person Jon’s speaking to—but he can see the sudden tension in their shoulders, born of surprise. But when Jon offers them a wider—though, to Martin, a distinctly less genuine—smile and brushes a casual hand over their arm, the tension bleeds out. Then, Jon’s standing, and he’s singing again, those same words but <em>lovelier,</em> somehow, because they’re making something within Martin want to step forward, to take Jon by the hand and tell him every secret he’s ever had, because it’s <em>Jon</em>, so of course he can trust him with those things that have never before been shared.</p><p> </p><p>Martin takes a step forward. And then staggers to a halt.</p><p> </p><p>Because Jon’s not singing anymore, the words sucked back within him mid-verse by an unwilling force. There’s a moment of total, utter silence, where the entire building seems to register that they’ve all taken an unconscious step toward Jon, their secrets and desires hovering at the tips of their tongues. Jon’s eyes are wide and staring at nothing, only for that moment, and they’re glazed just as silver as his dress.</p><p> </p><p>Then, the moment breaks, and Jon collapses. He’s kept from slipping off the platform by a man dressed in a wine-colored suit, who quickly and wordlessly gathers Jon in his arms and pushes his way through an easily yielding crowd to the shadows of the wings. The last thing Martin sees is the jet-black of his hair, pulled into a tight French braid; then, they’re gone, swallowed by the shadows, and it’s <em>quiet.</em> Martin’s breathing seems too-loud in the space, so he holds his breath and waits for… <em>something.</em></p><p> </p><p>The moment of silence stretches only a fraction longer before it’s filled with titters and murmurs, subdued speculations and tight-knit worried brows and questions without answers.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no,” Tim says in a low voice; when Martin looks over at him, he’s staring at the corner Jon and the man had disappeared into with deep lines of concern etched into his forehead. “That’s… that’s not good.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Martin says, and his voice is too-high, too-choked and desperate for release. “What’s wrong? Is- is he okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim looks at Sasha, who looks at Basira, who sighs and says, “Jon… has a tendency to push himself too far. Surprised it took this long for it to catch up to him, honestly.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not—” Sasha sighs and turns to Martin. “What Basira is <em>trying</em> to say is that it’ll be fine. It’s not <em>good,</em> but… it’s Jon. He can get a bit…”</p><p> </p><p>“Stupid?” Basira offers.</p><p> </p><p>“Self-sacrificing?” Tim says.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Stubborn,</em>” Sasha says with a sigh. “Look, it’ll be <em>fine,</em> can we just—oh, <em>shit</em>, it’s Bouchard.”</p><p> </p><p>A hand latches onto Martin’s arm and pulls him back into the shadows at the edge of the dancefloor, just as a man in an impeccably pressed, deep green suit steps onto the balcony. Martin can see the gold glitter of his eyeglasses from here, and he’s absolutely certain that it’s very real gold, and <em>very</em> expensive. Elias Bouchard is exactly how Martin had imagined him to be—immaculate, poised, and welcoming, yet still able to send an icy chill down Martin’s spine as he purveys the crowd below.  </p><p> </p><p>“A fine performance—wouldn’t you agree?” he says, clasping his hands firmly in front of him. “I believe that our lovely Jon deserves a round of applause, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>And the crowd obliges, surging into a cacophony of claps and whistles and shouts of assent. Martin can’t stop looking at that shadowed corner, a tight knot forming in his throat. After a few moments, Elias raises a hand, and the crowd settles almost immediately, like a trained puppy called to heel. “But you’ve tired him out, I’m afraid.” At the scattered sounds of disappointment, Elias continues, “But the show is far from over. I’m sure the rest of my dancers would be <em>more</em> than happy to entertain you.”</p><p> </p><p>As if on cue, the music starts back up, an up-tempo dance tune, and color flashes through the crowd again as the scene reanimates into a blur of motion and laughter and garish dresses. It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for it to be as if nothing had ever happened; the only evidence that remains is the twisting sensation in Martin’s stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“What,” Martin says, “just happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“Besides us successfully evading Elias Bouchard for a <em>second</em> time tonight?” Sasha shrugs, though a bit less casually than before. “The night is still young, Martin, and life goes on without us sometimes. This is a place of fun, of entertainment, of life and love and happiness and <em>joy.</em> There’s no room for the darker things—not out there.”</p><p> </p><p>“But don’t worry, Martin!” Tim claps a hand on Martin’s shoulder, the smile on his face just a bit forced. “If I know Gerry, he’ll have Jon right as rain in no time, so your meeting is still a go!”</p><p> </p><p>Martin sputters, but Tim pulls Martin into a side hug and squeezes so hard that the protests are punched right out of him. “Don’t worry,” Tim says with a wink. “You’ll do <em>great.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Martin thinks about Jon’s lips on his knuckles, and about the way his eyes had looked just before he’d fallen, and hopes upon all hope that Tim’s right.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I <em>said,</em> I’m <em>fine.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em>I</em> said,” Gerry counters, pressing the yellowing sheet of paper into Jon’s still-shaking hands, “that you’re not, and this will help. And which one of us is always right?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon glares at him. “Gerry, I <em>need</em> to get back out there, or Elias will—”</p><p> </p><p>“—will understand perfectly that you need to <em>rest.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Jon startles badly enough that the paper slips from his hands as Elias steps into the dressing area, his forehead creased in a semblance of worry but his eyes still sparkling and bright. Without breaking stride, Elias retrieves the paper and gives it a cursory glance. “Statement of Edmund Chilton, regarding the true circumstances of the acquisition of his large fortune.” He hands the paper to Jon, who snatches it away quickly, an embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks. “It will have to do. Though a live statement <em>would</em> be preferable. I seem to recall a Ms. Bordeaux accompanying you to your private rooms just last week. Or am I mistaken?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s phrased as a question, but Jon knows better. Elias doesn’t ask questions. He only sets traps. “You’re not. I took her statement, as you know <em>perfectly well.</em> It <em>should</em> have held me through until tonight.” That same thrum of fear that had overcome Jon, standing among the crowd and feeling the sudden dizziness wash over him in a tidal wave of darkness, returns with a vengeance, and he tries to keep his voice from shaking when he continues, “I- I apologize for my poor performance tonight. Had I known, I- I would have read a statement beforehand.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Jon,” Elias says, his thin smile twitching to overcome most of his face. “You misunderstand me. I’m not <em>disappointed</em>—quite the opposite, in fact. This is <em>good.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Good?” Jon says, a bit dumbfounded.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Good?</em>” Gerry echoes, significantly <em>less</em> dumbfounded and significantly <em>more</em> venomous. “In what kind of world is this <em>good</em>? Jon was just <em>unconscious.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Because,” Elias says in a perfectly controlled voice, “his connection to our patron is growing stronger. The time interval allowed between statements is… shortening, as we’ve discovered today.” His smile grows a bit sharper. “I imagine you’ll find that your abilities have grown stronger as well. Perhaps that’s something you could demonstrate to our benefactor? He <em>is</em> quite looking forward to meeting you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he manages to get out, “<em>Stronger?</em> Elias, you <em>said</em> that if I did this long enough, I could leave. Getting a- a <em>stronger connection</em> seems to be quite the <em>opposite</em> of that.”</p><p> </p><p>Elias hums. “Jon, do you know why our investor has traveled all this way to meet with you tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>“I imagine,” Jon says dryly, “that it’s to make sure he keeps <em>investing.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, in part. But change is coming, Jon. We’re… going to be working on a project, you see. A <em>production</em> of sorts. And you are going to be a <em>very</em> important part of it, which requires your connection to Beholding to be stronger than it is currently. After it’s complete… you’ll be free to leave.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s like all the air is sucked out of Jon’s lungs. He barely has enough to say, in a punched-out tone, “Just like that? One more performance, and that’s it?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Yes,</em> Jon. So this meeting is <em>very</em> important, you understand. Best have your strength for it.” He nods to the paper Jon’s holding still, crumpled slightly from where his hands have clenched around it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to see to. I trust you were able to locate our benefactor <em>prior</em> to your little incident?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon thinks of the man with copper curls and rosy, freckled cheeks, stood in the northeast corner of the room like Elias had said he would be, adorned in deep blue and saturated with that deepest, coldest loneliness, hidden away like a secret but so palpable upon his tongue. He… didn’t look like any of Elias’s other investors. His freckled cheeks had flushed a violent red when Jon had brushed a kiss across his knuckles, such a simple gesture meant to tease a future interaction and yet eliciting a response that nearly had Jon’s cheeks burning in kind.</p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn’t want to delude himself into thinking tonight will be easy. But perhaps it… perhaps it won’t be as difficult as Jon is so afraid it might be.</p><p> </p><p>“I was,” Jon says in a tight, efficient tone.</p><p> </p><p>“Excellent. Well, then—I will make my leave. And Jon?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon suppresses a sigh. “Yes, Elias?”</p><p> </p><p> “Might I suggest the white suit for tonight? Appearances are so <em>very</em> important in our line of work, after all.”</p><p> </p><p>“Quite,” Jon says dryly. Elias gives him one more tight-lipped smile before he’s gone, and Jon’s left with Gerry, whose hands are currently untangling his hair from its braid with a bit more force than necessary.</p><p> </p><p>“Gerry—” Jon starts, but he’s interrupted by a quick, “Jon, whatever excuses you’re about to make, I <em>don’t</em> want to hear them.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon presses his lips together and looks down at the statement in his hands. He can already feel the pull to read it, that nagging desire to <em>know</em>, to understand just what secrets its subject had kept hidden up until the point when they’d been spilled onto the paper with quill and ink. “I know,” Jon says, and he hates how <em>small</em> he sounds. “But what else am I to do? Maybe if- if I do this, then he’ll let <em>all</em> of us go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or, maybe he’s lying,” Gerry counters with a hard line to his mouth. “Christ, Jon, I’m sorry to have to say this again, but he’s <em>never</em> going to let us go! The <em>moment</em> we signed that contract we were bound to this place—to <em>him.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>know,</em>” Jon bites out around the lump in his throat and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. “Of <em>course</em> I know that, I just—”</p><p> </p><p>“You just think that because you’ve never caught him in a lie, he always tells the truth?” Gerry shakes his head and shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. “Do whatever you’re going to do, Jon. But <em>don’t</em> do it because you think it’s the golden ticket out of here. Because there isn’t one. Not for you, and not for me, and not for Georgie or Melanie or any of the rest of us. Once you accept that, things get a hell of a lot easier. Not better, but easier.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll take it under advisement,” Jon snaps, more harshly he intends to, but <em>Christ,</em> he knows, okay? He <em>knows</em> that there’s no way out, but he… he just can’t let himself <em>believe </em>it.</p><p> </p><p>The little voice at the back of his mind, the one that still trusts that Elias is telling the truth and that at the end whatever he’s planning, he’ll let Jon leave the Moulin Rouge, is deafening. Jon looks to the statement. “Now, I- I need to get ready for tonight. I’ll… I’ll let you know if I need help with my hair.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pause; Jon doesn’t look up from the paper. “Okay,” Gerry says, a bit softer, and Jon tries not to imagine the sadness that he knows will be pulling the corners of Gerry’s mouth into a frown. “Be safe, Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>He leaves, the quiet tap of his shoes fading until Jon’s alone, left with only the bleed of music from the dancehall above and the rhythmic sound of hundreds of feet moving as one. Jon allows himself a moment of hope, rooted in a truth he wishes for more dearly than anything and in a kind freckled face, before turning his attention back to the statement and beginning to read.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“My, my, Elias,” Peter Lukas says as Elias settles behind his desk. “You look dreadful. Long night?”</p><p> </p><p>“At least <em>I</em> don’t stink of bourbon,” Elias says tightly, brushing soot from the shoulder of his suit jacket. The fire in his private library had been… <em>unexpected</em>. And he quite despises being caught off guard, particularly on such an important night as this one. Still, he schools his expression into something neutral, though he can’t shake the feeling that Peter can still sense the irritation lying beneath the surface and finds it quite funny indeed. “You may want to change before your meeting with Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em>you</em> may want to vet your clientele a bit more <em>thoroughly,</em>” Peter says tightly, a rare moment of frustration crossing his face before it’s wiped away just as quickly as it had come. “Quite a clumsy girl. But no matter. I’ve heard <em>so</em> much about your lovely new acolyte—I’m sure a bit of spilled alcohol won’t be an issue.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm.” Elias leans over his desk and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “And I trust our agreement will hold? Assuming you’re satisfied with Jon’s work.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s smile is cold. “Would I lie to you, Elias?”</p><p> </p><p>“I assume that’s rhetorical,” Elias says, “given the events of 1886.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, fine.” Peter crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, his smile pulled down into a frown. “Yes, our agreement will hold. You’ll get the funding for your little ritual, and I’ll get my stake in it as well. We’ll remake the world in the image of the Ceaseless Watcher and the Forsaken, blah blah blah. Provided I receive any evidence at <em>all</em> that this isn’t like the last time you pitched this idea.”</p><p> </p><p>Elias’s face twists into a scowl. “Gertrude was… inferior as a linchpin. I think you’ll find Jon <em>much</em> more suited to the role.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s smile is sharp. “We’ll see.”</p><p> </p><p>“Excellent.” Elias reaches below his desk and extracts a bottle of whisky from his cabinet beneath—aged exceptionally and kept isolated, just like Peter prefers. Nobody can say that he doesn’t know how to entertain his clients, after all. “Now, then. A drink?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>cw: alcohol</p><p>the lyrics that Jon sings are from Turning Page by Sleeping At Last</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛</p>
<p>find me on tumblr <a href="https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/">@bluejayblueskies</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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